


Death of the Author

by 月氣 (TheUmbraphage)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, BL, Dark Character, Disabled Character, M/M, Martial Arts, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological, Transmigration, Wuxia, danmei - Freeform, historical china, therapy will come in time tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28399125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUmbraphage/pseuds/%E6%9C%88%E6%B0%A3
Summary: Alternate title “The Protagonist Isn't Supposed To Fall For The Villainous Author!”He Dehua spent years building up his name as a writer god under pen name Jian He before boosting his ratings by over 1000% when he released his most popular work 「Bleeding Heart, Scarred Hero」in manhua format. When the publishers furlough him, his work gets derailed by fan service.Helpless, He Dehua can do nothing else but watch his beloved work go up in flames with fans cheering it on. He Dehua lives on in bitter resentment until life has another thing in store for him and he wakes up in the final boss’s body with a single task: fix the plot.Easier said than done.
Relationships: Hé Déhuá | Hé Rújūn/Ān Xūn, 和德華 | 和如君/安勋
Comments: 1
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Took a break from my main projects to work on this little thing. Hope you enjoy this trashfire!

Jian He couldn’t remember his life before dedicating his waking moments to writing「Bleeding Heart, Scarred Hero.」 This was something he would always say with mirth in his eyes in response to anyone who asked about his life—be it coworkers, fans, and interviewers alike—followed by a joking “Please forgive this old man; there’s a lot to remember.” It frustrated everyone to no end.

It was a given that Jian He wasn’t his real name, as it was his pen name for over fifteen years ever since releasing his first short stories and web serials. For the most part, he was a quiet person who never showed his face, instead using his writer’s influence to grip his readers by the edge of their seats as they followed his gritty, psychological writing—but, as algorithms worked hard on the trending page, his name remained largely unheard of when romance writers and stallion authors climbed ranks exponentially faster than he did.

Jian He seemed fine with this. His credentials were no joke after all: he finished college with a degree in Chinese History and Literature and he hinted that he spent his younger years out of college as a journalist for some local Mainland newspaper. To this day, years since his first debut, no one could guess which newspaper he worked for.

If such a humble writer existed, why did he have enough fans to warrant podcast interviews on the national scale?

It wasn’t until his fifth work, and six years into his writing career, that Jian He revealed the ace up his sleeve: a decent artistic ability and a range of knowledge from studying his stallion novel competitors. Jian He the author was no longer the name readers knew and, instead, Jian He the manhua creator became a household name.

「Bleeding Heart, Scarred Hero」was the work he cherished most, which he admitted six months after the first volume was published by Golden Petal Publishers. In fact, it was the first work he wrote, a year or so before his first web serial. Originally a novel, 「Bleeding Heart, Scarred Hero」took the longest for him to weave together, until he scrapped the entire document and transformed it into a script, then storyboard, and finally a manhua manuscript.

For his old fans, the change was earth shattering. Jian He was a modern Gu Long, born in the wrong generation where his works couldn’t be appreciated. How could a writer god, a diamond in the rough, bend his knee to the mindless, thoughtless masses?

But then, 「Bleeding Heart, Scarred Hero」climbed to the top ranks after the second volume. Then, his old fans fell silent with their complaints.

Jian He considered himself a good study of Sun Tzu’s Art Of War after dedicating a semester’s project to the original writing. While many of his works stagnated in views, he spent years analyzing the trending page and determining how he can make his works more palatable—while keeping the same essence that made his writing Jian He’s. Now, he could sit back and bask in the spoils of his hard work, secretly cheering  _ Take that, you horny bastard _ ! when his views overtook the top-ranking stallion novel and reviews exceeded its scores.

「Bleeding Heart, Scarred Hero」was the work Jian He took the most care with, for reasons unknown to all. It was a generic wuxia setting in a fictional dynasty in historical China, so obviously the worldbuilding was lacking in favor of politics. It should have been unimpressive on its own, but while Jian He was perfectly capable of writing fantastical and supernatural worlds, he shined when it came to writing characters.

An Xun was the scarred protagonist, a lonesome orphan who was taken in as a disciple by his godfather in a small sect that dealt primarily in medicine. He lived his childhood normally, treated kindly and fairly by his shifu and the other sect members. His sect was his family, and An Xun would not hesitate to lay his life down for them out of filial piety.

Then, as expected of all wuxia protagonists, tragedy struck. For An Xun, the child was only ten when his shishu, favored disciple of the sect leader, betrayed them all and wiped out the sect in a calculated move. From that day on, resentment burrowed deep into An Xun’s heart and he swore to avenge his shifu’s death on one despicable name: He Rujun!

This path of vengeance on behalf of filial piety would be a difficult one, spanning the entirety of the work from beginning to end. In every way, He Rujun was not some cannon fodder or scum villain for the protagonist to curb stomp at the end of some minor arc: he was the final boss that easily brushed aside the protagonist, with both his extensive martial skill, his extensive strategy, and terrifying reputation as a demonic sect leader, until the protagonist spent years to chip away at He Rujun’s sect foundations and overthrow his tyrannical rule over jianghu—all the while An Xun slowly uncovered the dirty truths of wulin history and right the wrongs of the past.

At least, that was the intention.

Jian He wanted to end the series at six volumes—it was plenty of time and content for An Xun to complete his arc without filler nonsense. When he signed the contract with Golden Petal Publishers in that high-rise office overlooking the smoggy scape of Beijing and voiced this, the publisher gave him a strained smile in the office and said:

“Even in Japan, manhua needs at least fifteen volumes for the best sales.”

And so, he agreed after a reluctant pause. Even for Jian He, money talked. Two other publishers already rejected his manuscript, and his patience wore thin.

Jian He introduced a romance subplot to fill out the series more, until it was enough storyboards for fifteen volumes. It was a small sacrifice worth to pay, he thought. Romance wasn’t too hard to write after all, as long as it didn’t derail too much.

Jian He was happy to wipe his hands clean and continue on once the publisher nodded and approved the first ten volumes. Four years and eight volumes later, Jian He was ready to finish the third drafts of the last seven volumes, living comfortably in a slightly-nicer apartment with his black and white speckled old cat companion, Hujiao.

“Sales are looking great, but what about a harem subplot?” they suggested.

Jian He was speechless.

“It would be great for boosting sales!” they said.

And, so, came the eventual downfall of writer god Jian He.

—

He Dehua, while many speculate him to be a good-looking, humble man in his early-to-mid thirties after he spent years building his name as Jian He, was considered intolerable by his close associates, family, and friends—if he could call them that. There was a reason he lived alone with a cat, never successfully dated a single soul for more than a year, and seemed to be married to his bottle of wine, estranged from his family. The amount of hubris he could fit into his tall, spindly form was astounding by all measures. He lifted his nose at web novelists forced to reduce their works into fanservice. He lifted his nose at writers that fall short of the prowess of Red Lantern Dream1 (Jin Yong, Gu Long, and Wei Kang2 were the exceptions for no other reason except he grew up reading their revolutionary works). He lifted his nose at mainstream entertainment, firmly believing in artistic virtues and integrity.

Behind his back, others wonder in their muttered whispers if He Dehua was so annoying only because his mother named him after Andy Lau and somehow he thought he could rival the actor’s talent, just in writing instead of on camera.

He Dehua wasn’t blind to this. He just couldn’t care less if people liked him or not. He had a lot to say about the plasticity of people and their degradation because of it, and people could take it or leave it.

(He relished in the spitting vitriol that comes across his inbox when a reader got offended at him—in a twisted way, it meant he was doing his job right.)

The pen was his blade, sharp enough to rival his tongue in cutting people to pieces, and the paper was his medium. He Dehua was content to use his pen name as a mask, but now—

He was beginning to regret this.

“Look, listen—Hello? Hello?!” His voice, raised in volume, drawing wary looks from other pedestrians on the sidewalk. The man, dressed casually yet expensively in dark clothes, looked at his thin, brand new phone with a face twisted in rage as his hand shook, on the verge of cracking the screen under the sheer pressure of his claw-like fingers. He lifted his arm, about to throw the device into the highway below the bridge, before, slowly, he retracted his hand and stuffed the phone into his pocket.

He technically had enough money to buy another phone, but with his pay cut down to 1500 RMB a month, he’d rather not borrow from his mother, and in turn, his father whose name he’d rather forget.

He Dehua watched the dimming sunlight over the streams of light from the cars below, contemplative as he readjusted his mask over his gaunt, yet delicate face, grimacing with the faint scent of smog in the air.

He scoffed.

It was ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous! Nine years squandered for nothing!

He gripped his cane in his hand and shifted his bag of frozen groceries to his forearm, before navigating the streets back to his apartment, sending glares at anyone who dared looked at the young man with pity as he shuffled unevenly, unable to put the whole of his weight on his right knee.

He Dehua felt himself overcome with a sense of numbness after stepping into the air conditioning of the towering apartment building, the air chilling to the bones. Who would leave air conditioning on at full blast in the middle of winter?! Yet he didn’t bring himself to care enough and complain. Hobbling over to the elevator with a curse, he pressed for the metallic “up” button until the arrow lit up in a silvery light.

The front desk worker glimpsed his entrance through the glass window of the lobby’s front office, eyes guarded as she prepared to face off another one of He Dehua’s daily complaints before softening into confusion when he barely spared the office another glance.

Seeing his face disappear behind the elevator doors, the worker could only grumble to herself as she returned her attention to her computer, “What’s up with Mister He today?”

On the tenth floor, He Dehua lived in a spacious apartment locked behind a simple green-painted door in a well-kept hallway washed in atmospheric yellow light. It was a quiet place, which did well for his needs.

The apartment itself was dark with only the fading orange sunlight casting bars of shadows over the hardwood floor of the living room as it shone through the blinds of the balcony door. Without further adieu, He Dehua set his cane by the door and flipped on the lights before he limped over to the kitchen area, letting his coat fall into a crumpled pile on the armchair with his mask and gloves.

In the cabinets above, he rummaged through rows of glass bottles, most of them half empty, deciding on his choice for the evening. Plum wine? No, that was for celebration. Vodka? Sure, he liked getting blackout drunk but he needed something more tasteful. (He was running low on the bottle, anyways.)

He took refuge on the couch after pulling out the bottle of bourbon and a cup of ice, flopping down unceremoniously face first into the cushions once the table narrowly saved the ice and alcohol from getting knocked all over the place. Stretching his sore joints, he lifted his head, glasses askew, to search for the TV remote as his hand fumbled over the coffee table in search of its rectangular shape.

He turned the TV on to some mundane drama—one he didn’t care to follow and didn’t bother to turn the volume up to listen to, and poured himself a glass. Lifting the cup, he swished the golden brown liquid to listen to the soft clinks of the ice against the smooth glass and breathe in the bitter, aromatic scent.

“What a day,” He Dehua let out a loud, dramatic sigh as he stretched his legs across the length of the leather sofa, barely batting an eye as screaming pain shot through his knees at the motion. It was either painkillers or hard liquor these days and he usually chose the latter. He sipped from his glass, frowning as he eyed the lavish period clothes that flashed across the screen. Ming Dynasty, he immediately guessed, if the costume designers weren’t fucking idiots.

“Stupid show,” he muttered. “Need you remind me of my stupid life? My stupid self when I was barely twenty-three and desperate to get published?”

The screen didn’t answer. He scoffed again, finishing off the glass in a few burning gulps.

Looking at his glass as he debated whether or not to pour himself another cup, he settled for grabbing the bottle by its neck and flicking the metal cap off to take a long swig from it, letting the liquid burn down his chest where it pooled into a warmth that slowly spread from his chest outwards. His brown eyes flicked to a stuffed rat—an expensive cat toy that once had luscious curly grey fur before being worn down after a few years of use—and he let out a soft laugh.

“Hujiao, can you believe me? That I was strung along for so long? ‘Too controversial,’ they said. What fucking bull crap.”

There was no answer, not a single movement. He Dehua deflated at the silence.

“It’s alright, I know you’d be agreeing with me right now, if you weren’t busy napping or high off of catnip, you lazy bum. I only wish you were still here…” His voice grew quiet. He took another swig, grimacing this time. “Fuck, I can’t even believe myself. They couldn’t be bothered to answer my calls for this whole year, ever since that one letter ‘relieving’ me of my creative direction duties… It’s just some glorified version of being thrown into the cold palace3, except I’m not some royal consort but some whore to be used.”

He snickered.

“But hey, I guess even though the porn industry wasn’t for me, I ended up whoring myself out to some publishers anyways. Should’ve gone the law school route instead, listened to my mother instead of being stubborn and wanting to get back at my glorified sperm donor. What did I expect, to humiliate him somehow like he humiliated us?” His snicker turned into a hollow laugh. “What a fool, a fool I was… And the company couldn’t even be bothered to keep me updated, instead sending me a copy of the last volume just a week before its release.”

His words grew more slurred by the minute as he was already halfway through the bottle, glowering at the book sitting on the coffee table. Ever since finding it in his PO box a week ago, he hadn’t bothered to crack it open—both from shaking too much in anger that he’d rather spit on it and throw it off his balcony, and from being frightened to death to see what they had done to the product of his blood and sweat.

_ To hell with it. I’m drunk off my ass anyways. _

He thumbed it open to the first page, recognizing his own art style—or, rather, a good mimicry of it. He hadn’t drawn a page in almost a year, but still he could make out the subtle differences through the buzzing fog.

The volume itself was about ten chapters, befitting of a finale. To his dismay, it was already the twentieth volume—just how fast did the team work to bust out six volumes in a year? Wary, he began reading.

The first chapter opened with the Battle of the Red Maelstrom—something He Dehua had to nod in appreciation for staying true to his original work. It was one of the last battles that brought He Rujun’s forces to its knees and ensured An Xun’s path to victory and his eventual rise to power to merge the Northern and Southern Dynasties. Along the Yangtze River, He Rujun’s naval prowess was unmatched and successfully fended off An Xun from capturing the southern fortress of the Northern Dynasty for over a year—until, finally, An Xun formulated a plan with his other generals to dig a trench near the river, filling it with water from a nearby lake, and built a dam uphill, which took a week to complete as An Xun distracted the forces at sea. During the bloody battle, An Xun whittled down the forces and corralled the ships like sheep, until the dam was lifted, sending a powerful current of water into the river and triggering a temporary maelstrom that drowned half of He Rujun’s ships and secured the southern fortress for An Xun.

He Dehua, of course, didn’t remember writing so much romance into the battle, between the desperate kiss between An Xun and Qiu Xiuying (he doubly didn’t ever remember writing about her), and… He Rujun and Chen Qingxia? This was already bringing on a headache; he never intended to pair every character up, much less the main antagonist He Rujun!

(It could also have been because of the alcohol, but he liked to put all the blame on the people who furloughed him.)

Feeling dirty and offended, the thought to throw the manhua away glanced across his fuzzy mind, but he forced himself to continue reading. The nausea only roiled in his gut more intensely, and his blood pressure was already beginning to boil, as time passed.

An Xun may have been the protagonist, flocked to by all the girls and with a harem of his own, but somehow He Rujun received a similar treatment—except, because he had the unfortunate luck of being casted as the final boss with good looks to compare, he, too, had a romance arc of his own. And a sickeningly unrealistic one it was, at that.

Yes, He Rujun was mistreated by his sect. Yes, He Rujun came from an illegitimate bloodline. But did he go crying about it? No! Did he deeply regret his various accounts of murder? Absolutely not! Would he fall for some pretty girl whose father he killed in order to crumble the noble family’s power? Definitely, absolutely, resolutely not!

He Dehua could feel himself already foaming at the mouth with rage.

Then, He Rujun sacrificed his life out of guilt, to give in to the protagonist and stick it to the real villain—

Wait, wait, wait. What real villain?

He Dehua’s brain stuttered as he flipped back a few pages to reread the last act of the volume.

Chen Qingxia crying over He Rujun’s corpse, An Xun reeling as he stood over the scene, remembering all the tragedies He Rujun put him through, and… forgiving He Rujun?

What kind of K*lo R*n villain trope circle jerk was this?! And the volume ended on a cliffhanger? They were turning it into a neverending shounen, weren’t they?!

He Dehua, spitting blood, cursed the publishers to hell and back. Fuck the company! Fuck the villain stans! Fuck the fan service! And fuck their moms too!

He set the book down, feeling numb all over. His true fans would no doubt slander his name, and he would probably do the same if he didn’t know that Jian He was a name that no longer belonged to him.

  
He grabbed the bottle and drank. And drank. And drank. Until the room was spinning and his whole right arm—and only his right arm, he noted with slight concern when he was certain he was numb all over the last time he drank this much—tickled with the prickles of pins and needles all over— _ that doesn’t seem good, _ he thought to himself but couldn’t bring himself to care or muster the energy to reach for his phone—and he pulled the throw blanket over himself, tucking the cat toy under his arm, until he fell unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes  
> 1 - Red Lantern Dream is a novel written in the Ming Dynasty (I think?). It’s considered a classic, and there are entire courses dedicated to this monster-long novel.  
> 2 - Jin Yong, Gu Long, and Wei Kang are considered the three founding fathers of wuxia. If you know Gu Long’s biography, spot the similarities!  
> 3 - “Thrown into the cold palace” is a saying based on a punishment for Royal Consorts. Royal Consorts who fall out of favor are moved into a palace where they are alone and don’t have the lavish treatment other consorts do. Here, it references a tactic companies use where their contracted employees cannot act/release albums/work on any projects if said employee doesn’t comply with the company’s wishes, and the employee can’t make money until the contract ends or they get back in the company’s favor.


	2. He Rujun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter! I’m trying to keep the beginning chapters short compared to my normal 5k+ ones for now, but eventually more will be happening...

When he stirred, his eyelids would not twitch a single muscle to open, too heavy with the glaze of exhaustion. Not that he wanted to move anyways—even a slight turn of his head to seek a more comfortable position against the rough, scratchy hard surface underneath him intensified the pulsing pain of his hangover headache. He wouldn’t even be surprised if his hangover had triggered yet another one of his migraines, feeling the vice around his head even more strongly than usual.

He mumbled to himself, wrapping the thin, itchy blanket closer around himself to fend off the cold, “Shit… I could use a coffee right now.”

Then, he frowned. He didn’t remember the cushions to be this hard, nor the blanket to be this poor of quality.

PING!

The loud sound, not unlike a text notification set at maximum volume next to his ear, sent a stabbing pain across his temple. With an angry huff, he threw out his arm in search of the offending device to mute the volume setting and throw it across the room—only, he came up empty handed.

[Program has been installed!]

[Initializing…]

Bright blue text flashed across his mind’s eye as he finally opened his eyes, squinting through the light filtering in through the open window—a window made of wooden panes, styled in ancient flowing geometric shapes that decidedly was not the modern style of his apartment, and wax paper. Immediately, he could tell, wherever he was, it was a decently expensive place, with hardwood floor and a fur rug laid atop the smooth surface, yet where he slept on the wooden, cushion-less bed, the straw mat and blanket seemed like they should belong in a poor farmer’s home.

He sat up with some effort, his head heavy as his vision spun. Squeezing his eyes shut, he let his head hang in his hands, focusing on the icy sensation from his fingers where they pressed against his face for some relief from the pain. His fingers grazed fabric bandages, the rough linen scraping against the finger pads.

Well, that explained why his head panged with even worse pain than usual. Did he hit his head?

In front of the blue light behind his closed eyes, confetti burst in an overly cheerful popping sound. He scowled at the gesture.

[Hello and congratulations on your transfer, Mister Jian He! My designation is BHSH_alpha_001, but you may refer to me as system—]

He grimaced at the annoyingly joyful voice and hissed, “ _ Please shut up. _ ”

[...ah! Many apologies, Mister Jian He. This one forgot about your condition!]

_ What condition? _ he thought, sneering.  _ What do you know about me?! _

[Eh? Eh? Mister Jian He may access his stats later! But, it is rude for me to not welcome you here first!]

He wanted to beat his head against the wall until he was unconscious, just for whoever this system was to stop with its high, ringing, kawaii-imitation voice.

[Huuu so mean, Mister Jian He,] they whined. [Fine, you may skip the tutorial and intro mode at this time! This system is available 24/7 at your call!]

He decided he would much rather never contact this system ever again. When there was silence to meet his disgruntled thoughts, he sighed in relief before lifting his head from his hands, the pain beginning to subside into a normal throb so he could actually think about anything other than the background suffering.

This, he could handle fine. Since childhood, migraines were persistent, if not on the daily basis then on the weekly basis—so, this was a walk in the park compared to days he couldn’t get up from bed to turn on the light and do much else other than to sleep in comforting silence.

With a furrow in his brow, he examined his surroundings to make sure his eyes weren’t deceiving him. He rubbed at his eyes. Still, the room looked nothing like his apartment.

Kidnapped? If he was, why wasn’t he bound, gagged, and blindfolded then? Nonetheless, it seemed like an odd place to hold a hostage in, with the crisp autumn air wafting in with the cool breeze in someplace undoubtedly far from Beijing—

It was winter in Beijing, long after all the leaves had fallen. Outside, he could glimpse red leaves rustling, the light seeping in dappling with the movement. Even if, somehow, he ended up in the Southern Hemisphere, it wouldn’t be anywhere near autumn.

Like a stone shackled to a drowning victim’s ankle, his gut sank, yet he couldn’t muster the energy to feel despair. The numbness in his blood spreading through his body was… Indifferent.

He always thought transmigration plots were ridiculous, more often than not resulting in bad self-insert fiction, or badly written characters for the sake of “immersing the widest possible audience.” They were perhaps not so bad compared to thousand-chapter long stallion novels or two-thousand-chapter long romance novels. BBJX1 was on thin ice.

So, in spite of this so-called system that made itself known to him and his certainty that he did not have a schizoid disorder among his shining trophy case of a nutcase (to quote a doctor he long since stopped seeing), he was less than inclined to think this was the case. But, if this was the afterlife, fate must love to play a sick joke on him.

Which brought him to the next question: was it truly another world unfamiliar to him? Some fucked up timeline bullshittery? Or, perhaps, if fate operated on tropes, was it a world too familiar to him?

(In this span of ten whole minutes, he had a lot to think to himself, thoughts growing more outlandish by the second. He was first and foremost a writer, after all. Then, secondly, he was a reader.)

Buried deep in his thoughts as he formulated a plan to figure out what to do next (does he escape this place and make a new life of his own? Should he stay and explore? Or wait and play along with whatever fate had in store for him?), without reconsidering if he should accept the help of the system, he jumped at the sound of the door creaking open.

“He Rujun, you’re awake finally. Silly child, what were you thinking, running away like that?”

The deep, powerful voice came from none other than the tall, old man in simple Daoist robes, a kind face to match his elderly white beard, as he stepped in, the silvery grey hairs of his carefully-crafted whisk floating through the air in a graceful motion until it lay across his arm.

Such a wise Daoist with a compassionate tone, strangers would be quick to trust this daozhang to protect them, as such was the duty of Daoist sects. However, instinctively, he stiffened, recoiling as if poison had just saturated the air.

It was a double slap in the face, like a bucket of ice water followed by a burning cigarette pressed to the skin.

He Rujun? Truly, fate had the worst sense of humor!

(He wasn’t surprised in the least, except for the feeling of bile threatening to rise up. It was an insult, to be forced to live his trashfire of a work.)

Even if He Rujun technically had a better life without He Dehua’s say in it, if bad romance arcs and suicide could be considered “good,” there was enough in the man’s life to fuel the hate that pushed him into becoming a tyrannical sect leader who split the dynasty in two between the north and south.

And when He Dehua did have a say in his arc, the man fell from great heights when he found his foundations had crumbled into nothing, and, as a prisoner of war who finally fell in An Xun’s hands, had his legs broken for his transgressions, living his last days as a cripple until his execution at the hands of the officials whose power he razed to the ground years ago.

He rubbed at his wrist—now to think of it, his hands did look smaller and thinner than before, drawing up distant memories of his lanky, bony teenaged self—and did not so much as twitch at the flare of pain where his palm, lightly calloused from a few years of using a sword, pressed into the brownish-purple skin. Vaguely, he could recall which point of the story he was in, not only from his fine memory of the original details, but somehow he remembered even more.

The musty air of an old, cramped apartment and the smell of instant noodles cooking over the stove after his mother got off from a long day of work from childhood, yet the memory was faint, hidden behind images he couldn’t remember experiencing before today: the dust that perpetually hung in the air of a small house—it couldn’t be called anything more than a shed—on the edge of a farm; the piercing cold and the beating heat of seasons past when he was no more than a small child, carried on his mother’s back; a stabbing hollow emptiness in his chest when he found his mother staring up at the ceiling with glassy eyes and blood-stained lips; the day he took the old Daoist’s hand, chest full of hope and a need, a want to belong to a real family—

That was too much to unpack all at once. But, one thing he could be certain of was that Zhu Qianli was the most despicable person he’s had the opportunity of writing and, apparently, meeting.

There might have been a couple close runner ups back in his other (past?) life, but when fiction was a magnifying glass, Zhu Qianli’s mere presence made his breath stutter in searing rage, yet when his muscles stiffened, he was more inclined to bolt than to kill the man before him.

Well. Killing might be inevitable, now that he thought of it. That might be a problem later, however soon the plot arc should come.

He Rujun, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise, did not let a single emotion show, only a faint purse of his lips to betray the hatred toward the man. Moving to slide off the bed and bow to the elder, he said, curt, “Zhangmen-shifu, this disciple has troubled you.”

Zhu Qianli’s lips curled in a benign smile, but even as the boy swayed slightly in his struggle to keep himself upright, he didn’t move toward He Rujun, instead turning to open the window a little wider, the draft coming in full force with the breeze. He Rujun stifled a sneeze. Nodding, the elder stroked his beard and replied, “Learning to quell your arrogance can take multiple falls. As your shifu, it is only my duty to teach you well in order to be the future sect leader.”

He Rujun was speechless. The original goods had been so easily strung along by Zhu Qianli’s lofty promises in his early teenage years, but anyone with eyes could see the lies as clear as day—no need for an author’s foresight.

He Rujun’s foolishness in childhood—from his original wishes to be accepted by a family he was only loosely tied to by blood, to the poisonous heart cultivated in the years he spent as a disciple of the Anzhen sect, plotting to gain the favor of Zhu Qianli before unraveling everything the man stood for out of vengeance for his dead mother—was perhaps the ultimate plot point that led to the years of warring after his eventual takeover of Great Ming. It was a catch 22: one path of vengeance out of filial piety would always lead to another person’s vengeance, also out of filial piety.

Right now, he chewed on his cheek, troubled. Jian He was a vengeful man himself, but his sense of self-preservation lingered here, knowing He Rujun’s justice can easily lead to his death two decades or so from now. But, the mere concept of hugging the protagonist’s thick golden thighs already made him feel violated, if it meant he had to bow down to An Xun’s martial family.

Disgusting. Why didn’t fate—or whatever this system really was—drop him off in one of his detective novels instead, in a detached protagonist’s body?

“Yes, shifu,” He Rujun gritted out, the blood vessel popping at his temple as he struggled to not sneer at the man. If he didn’t know Zhu Qianli was only interested in keeping He Rujun around for his martial prowess and experimental value, the original goods would surely grow hopeful again—just like a hound dog that had been left out in a freezing kennel in a snowstorm who always returned to its owner’s side for meager scraps.

“Rest for the morning, but join Wan Chuanli for training in the afternoon with An Xun. Also—be sure to cover up your bruises. It is unbecoming for the disciple of Anzhen’s sect leader to show signs of foolery.”

“Yes, shifu,” was all he could say, mouth dry with bitterness. He Rujun watched Zhu Qianli’s retreating form as the man shut the door behind him, leaving him alone in the cold room without so much as another look. He Rujun let his face twist into a grimace before he turned toward the window—only to hiss in pain when he put too much weight on his left ankle.

It was the Anzhen sect’s turn to be cursed to hell and back by him as he silently limped to the window, reaching to close it before he paused, looking out at the scenery. Typical with most sects that didn’t occupy a temple like Quanzhen or the Shaolin temples, Anzhen was ways away from the nearest village, standing in an estate high up the treacherous mountain blanketed in a thick layer of mist, yet near enough one of the winding roads where the sect could easily be found. It was the perfect vacation spot, if he wasn’t in this situation.

If he remembered right, today was the day after He Rujun’s second attempt at running away—an impulsive decision that led to painful consequences. His shixiong, Wan Chuanli, hated He Rujun’s guts even more blatantly than Zhu Qianli, who only thought of the boy as a pawn. He Rujun may have been a growing tactician at such a young age, but he was no match for Zhu Qianli, who could expect his next three steps, until the opportunity presented itself.

He let out a quiet snort. For technicality’s sake, He Rujun was no Cao Cao2 when he was a mere teenager, so it would be laughable to say the fall of Anzhen was entirely premeditated. Yet, at the same time, no tactician would be a true master without being an opportunist.

No matter, the cataclysmic event was something he’d rather avoid—getting his hands bloody wasn’t something he found particularly tasteful—which meant he better start predicting Zhu Qianli’s every move and find an opening to escape and become a nobody—

[Mister Jian He, that is illegal! ;-;]

He Rujun’s face darkened as a thunder cloud settled over it.  _ I thought our connection was disconnected. _

The annoying voice chirped, [Mister Jian He opted out of the intro and tutorial! This system is here to assist 24/7, including mission directives.]

His eyes squinted, hand clenching in a fist. He scowled, unable to contain his rage in a silent thought, “What do you mean mission directives?! I’m the author! I can do whatever the fuck I want! If I don’t want to become emperor, then I won’t because He Rujun wasn’t born into royalty in the first place. If the question is who is whose mother, then I am your mother!”

The voice was speechless before it protested, [Admin privileges are restricted to those without character roles!]

“Then give the character role to someone else,” he snarled.

[But, but, Mister Jian He! I can’t do that!!]

“Why not? Then give me a refund! I want to go back!”

[If I give Mister Jian He a refund, he will surely regret!]

He Rujun huffed, “For a system, you are vague. Why, pray tell, would I regret?”

[Your original host body has been expired for 24 hours!]

A beat passed as, for a second, it seemed he couldn’t breathe. He Rujun carefully relaxed his face, maintaining a perfectly calm visage.

[See, Mister Jian He, you must understand—]

“I don’t believe you.”

[...Eh?]

“For all I know, this could be an elaborate prank,” he knew it likely wasn’t, “And, surely, this is bad customer service. Why would you market a faulty product that the customer doesn’t have control over? And the customer, even more so, didn’t pay for?”

[Mister Jian He—]

“Give me all the facts or it didn’t happen—“ He Rujun sneered, before the seemingly calm silence of the room and the gentle breeze was shattered by a confused voice shouting from below.

“Gege? Who are you talking to? Why are you so angry?”

“...” He Rujun sweated before slowly looking downwards, spotting a small boy who looked up at him from the floor below with round eyes, concerned as his dark hair, tied back disheveled and with bangs that curled at the ends, glowed in a soft halo of gold in the sunlight.

Shoving the dread that rose to his throat down, he snapped, “Who are you calling ‘gege?!’ I’m your shishu! Unfilial!”

Slamming the window shut with one more glare at the boy, He Rujun only caught the last bits of “Sorry, shishu!” before he rested his back heavily against the window.

Unbeknownst to the young, puffy-faced An Xun, who looked at the closed window with a bewildered expression, He Rujun’s backside was soaked in cold sweat despite his haughty confidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Thoughts are always appreciated.
> 
> Footnotes  
> 1 - BBJX is short for Bu Bu Jing Xin, a famous romance novel about a girl who time travels back to the Qing dynasty.  
> 2 - Cao Cao was one of the big three figures during the Three Kingdoms (Liu Bei, Zhuge Liang, and Cao Cao) who headed Cao Wei in the north. He is noted to be one of the top strategists during that period.


End file.
